


holding together

by fagstar



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Gender Dysphoria, HRT, Introspection, Past Abuse, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Reflection, Suicidal Thoughts, Surgery, Trans TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), crab rave, hormone replacement therapy, i didnt know how i would incorporate it so u get potions, i dont think this counts as hurt/comfort or angst its just introspection lol, mentions of self mutilation (not performed though!! just thoughts of it), no beta we die like Jjjjjjeffrey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29342982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fagstar/pseuds/fagstar
Summary: Tommy is skin and ribs and flesh, too much and too little, held together with sinew and loose thread. He is hastily brewed potions and sleepless nights, emotions churning deep in his chest until it threatens to burst.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 12
Kudos: 183





	holding together

**Author's Note:**

> this is such a hashtag trangender moment haha
> 
> tw for briefly mentioned suicidal thoughts and thoughts of self harm

Tommy is skin and ribs and flesh, too much and too little, held together with sinew and loose thread. He is hastily brewed potions and sleepless nights, emotions churning deep in his chest until it threatens to burst. He is Tubbo and Wilbur and Schlatt and Techno and everyone mixed together to create the perfect persona.

He and Fundy are alike. They have the recipe memorized from months of working side-by-side to brew the potions each week to keep their heads above water. Any mistake, in ingredients or procedure or time, could mean they are cast into the murky depths.

Years have passed since Tommy was a child. Sometimes, he lies awake and yearns for those first few years, when everything was uncomplicated and happy. He wishes he could relive that time, flat-chested and carefree; a respite from the crushing feeling of a chest too heavy and body too soft.

Tommy is watchful eyes, studying those he knows. When the familiar feeling of wrong creeps its way up his throat, he becomes an actor. He imitates and dances and prays that no one sees past the facade of exaggerated gestures and feet set far apart and pants rolled up at the ends.

Only a few have ever been let past the iron walls of mocking jokes and curses Tommy raises around himself. Wilbur, Tubbo, Fundy. Techno and Phil, at one point. 

Times have changed. Wilbur is dead, Techno and Phil have destroyed the only thing left of him and replaced Tommy with someone new, someone better than him. Fundy is gone, drifting away from him and this place of grief and loss. Tubbo is the only one that remains, kept at an arm’s length to keep him from the harm Tommy seems to carry around with him.

Before, he and Wilbur and Fundy would sit side by side as Wilbur read directions to them, carefully brewing those precious clear potions. They would smile at each other as they drank them and Wilbur would grin and ruffle both of their hair. He’d praise them, his boys, his little soldier and his favourite brother, and Tommy’s chest would swell with pride.

Now, he sits in silence. He knows the recipe by heart, after years of weekly brewing.

Tommy has scars. He’s been through wars and fights and exiles and accidents. He has picked himself up and threaded himself back together. There are scars on his arms and his legs and his face and his torso, nicks and cuts from flashing blades and whistling arrows. There are scars on his chest and his back, from explosions and a deadly shot and a surgery. 

Sometimes Tommy feels too much. He looks down at his feet as he walks down the prime path and sees how his thighs are just a little bit too thick inside his khakis and he balls his fists, fingernails leaving crescents that nearly break the skin of his palms. He pulls his pants up just that much higher one day and his hips look far too wide, the crotch of his pants sitting too high, and he tears his gaze from his reflection as tears burn in his eyes. 

Sometimes he feels like taking a blade to himself, splitting his skin and bleeding himself dry. He feels like peeling his flesh apart until he is unrecognizable. Like taking a knife and carving himself up until he is right. The thoughts of ending it from his days in exile aren’t new, they’re like an old friend.

But sometimes, it’s okay. His pants sit right and his hips look square and he can lower his mask a little. When he feels like he can breathe a little bit better, he lets himself relax. It’s nice when he doesn’t feel like he has to perform. He can just be Tommy, not TommyInnit.

Time passes. Tommy matures. Now, during the peacetime, he feels like he can finally sit and think. He’s 16 now, almost 17. He’s a man. 

As he stares into the sunset, he thinks about the early days of the SMP. He’d been freshly 14, chubby-cheeked and bright eyed. Wilbur and Tubbo had been with him every step of the way, cheering him on and clapping him on the back with a  _ “congrats, big man!”  _ as he grinned toothily at each milestone he reached. 

Tommy misses Wilbur. He’d hurt him, of course. But no matter what he’d done, nothing could overshadow the happiness he’d felt with his brother by his side, creating L’Manburg together, and later Pogtopia, fighting side-by-side. Wilbur had done so much for him. Countless experiments to get the recipe just right so Tommy (and later, Fundy) could feel right, pulling all-nighters to pour over old, beat-up secondhand medical books for him. 

(The smile on Tommy’s face when he woke up, flat-chested and scarred, made it all worth it. His joy had been infectious, and the mood in that ravine had been high for weeks afterwards. Wilbur would do anything for his little brother.)

Occasionally, Tommy finds himself wishing that Phil had been successful in reviving Wilbur. But then, he remembered what Wilbur’d said at the bench, after Tommy and Tubbo had beat Dream. After everything, Wilbur deserved to be happy. If he was happy dead, then so be it. Who was Tommy to deny that of him?

Unlike Wilbur, Tubbo is still here. He’s safe. Warm. Alive. They have, against all odds, survived everything. The discs are back in their possession, Dream is in prison, and they can live in peace.

Tubbo slides into the spot next to Tommy, on the railing of his porch in Snowchester. They turn their faces to the setting sun and lean together. Tubbo is warm next to him, and Tommy hums, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. He smiles. Despite everything, Tommy likes the person he’s become. He’s finally happy.

**Author's Note:**

> i know wilbur isnt a doctoror a chemist and hes literally just on drugs but (thanos voice) *closes fist* canon is whatever i want it to be  
> i hope u liked this tho i think i was projecting a little it too much lmfao please leave a comment!!!!!!


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